


No More Happy Birthdays

by BloodylocksBathory



Category: House of Wax (2005)
Genre: Digestive Issues, Drunkenness, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Laxatives, M/M, Murder, Past Child Abuse, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Sibling Incest, Stomach Ache, Unrequited Crush, the last two are more like warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25537837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodylocksBathory/pseuds/BloodylocksBathory
Summary: One drunken evening ends in unthinkable violence and broken trust. Can Bo ever be forgiven? Does he deserve forgiveness?
Relationships: Bo Sinclair/Vincent Sinclair
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

Bo turned twenty-one today. So did Vincent. Twenty-one damn years for him and his twin brother. Sometimes Bo found himself wondering if his brother could even count that high. The fact that Vincent had made it this far was a miracle.

_ Stupid fuck... _

Bo scanned his surroundings. Things were quiet that evening in the Sinclair home, just as he wished. This was how he wanted the day to be every year: no cake specially made by Mom, no pink and yellow streamers hanging from the door frames. No presents sat upon the dining table, ready to be unwrapped and enjoyed.

A large, green gin bottle lay half empty in Bo’s hand. Taking another long swig, he rubbed his presently numb face with one hand, feeling the chafe of stubble. All day he had been drinking his wits away, eager to step out of reality and ignore the date. He had not seen Vincent since he opened the bottle, all the better for both of them. The last thing he needed at present was his halfwit brother getting in his way and reminding him what day it was. Bo glanced with rheumy eyes at the kitchen table again, which was in clear sight from his seat on the living room couch. In his blurred scrutiny, he had been wrong about the state of the place by one little detail. One present sat plainly on the faded yellow tablecloth, a shoddy, cranberry red box.

“Stupid fuck…” he muttered as he stood up and walked on wobbly legs to the crudely wrapped box which flickered in and out of focus in his glazed, bloodshot eyes. His frown deepened into a hateful glare when he picked up the trivial object. Hardly curious of what lay within, he threw the box aside and the crack it made against the wall amplified in his skull. Head throbbing and hands itching to destroy something else, he left the room in search of Vincent..

God damn it, no cake, no streamers, no celebration, and NO presents. Such idiotic sentiment had been banned from the household ever since Bo and his twin brother found out about Mom. Why Mom had to stay in bed, why Dad was always so unhappy, more so than before... that was when the birthdays ended.

And good riddance. Bo had always hated birthdays, ever since childhood. Vincent felt differently about them, but of course he did.He was always the favorite, and the fact especially rang true during celebrations. 

_ Goddamn perfect little angel, wasn't he? Mama's perfect fucking boy… _

Ignoring the splashes of liquor being tossed from its bottle, Bo whipped the cellar door open and stomped down the stairs.

"VINCENT!"

At the sound of Bo's voice, Vincent Sinclair jolted as though hit by lightning and he hurried to make sure he was not caught in his act. Should his brother find out what he had been doing, he would get a belt against his backside to the point of breaking skin. Or possibly even worse. His steps quick and light, the man made a dash for one of his sculptures, fingers clumsy while picking up a tool.

The sound of his brother's gait and the tone of his shouts were all too familiar to Vincent. Bo had been nursing on that disgusting drink again like a starving pup at its mother's teat. Not that the obsession made any lick of sense to Vincent; he could remember a time at the age of twelve when Bo had swiped some whiskey and made his brother try it. It had tasted awful, and the young man hated the way it made him feel. More so, he hated what it did to Bo. When his brother drank, the gin made his words worse, his voice louder and his fists harder.

"Where are you, you dumb mule-fuck!"

Hand diving under the rough denim layer of his overalls, he rushed to finish what he had started and tried desperately to look busy at the figure of the man he was carving. This one had been quite a challenge to catch, but a source of entertainment nonetheless for both brothers. Though appearing to be in his late forties, the wily bastard was in excellent shape. He had even put up a struggle when Vincent drugged him and proceeded in preparing the fit, athletic body. This would make for a very beautiful sculpture, more so than any of the ladies he had carved and painted.

Damn it, why couldn't he make it stop?? He had to before--

"WHERE ARE YA, GODDAMN IT!"

Too late. The door to the workroom banged open and Bo stumbled in like a rabid dog too sick to know where it was headed. Vincent flinched and the next cut his carving tool made dove deeply into the wax, reaching formerly living flesh and ruining the previously perfect, smooth surface of the figure. Vincent yelped in shock at what he had done to his sculpture. He had ruined him! Thoughts of repairing it were overshadowed by the mere thought of making such an ugly mistake. He had not slipped up on one of his projects in years. Lord knew how long it had been.

His stunned reverie was broken when he felt rough hands turn him violently around. Vincent's solitary functioning eye stared in fear through his wax mask at the enraged face glaring him down. Bo looked as though he was attempting to will his own twin brother's head to explode. Green flickered in the lamplight behind him, his gin bottle still unfinished.

"There you are," he growled, his speech slurred and his breath putrid. "What was that upstairs, you freak?" When his brother did not make any sort of response, Bo slapped him. The wax exterior covering Vincent's deformity cracked and caved in under the blow, causing the false visage to look permanently beaten in.

"WHAT WAS IT, HUH?" Bo gritted his teeth within the relentless influence of his inebriated state. "Oh sure, don't answer, I bet I can guess. Some stupid carving you wasted time on? I told you, I told you too many times, WE AIN'T GONNA CELIBRATE NO FUCKIN' BIRTHDAYS!! You understand me? DO YOU?!"

Vincent nodded, biting his lip underneath the damaged mask. His brother's shouting was loud enough to set his ears to ringing.

"Y’member why?" Bo asked, spittle forming on his lips. He slapped Vincent again, this time with the back of his hand. "Do ya??" Vincent seemed ready to sink into his own clothes. Bo didn't wait for an actual answer.

"Yeah, that's right," he sneered. "They're a bad waste of time. Real bad, 'cause I said so! What's the matter, you too stupid to remember? Too busy thinkin' of old times? You like that Mom and Dad treated you so well? HUH? What 'bout your brother, huh?? Where's his Happy Birthday??"

Vincent only cowered and shook his head. It did no good to reason with Bo in this state, with both his stomach and brain full of gin. Bo's grip on the other man's shoulders tightened. His speech was near the point of primitive now.

"I'mma suss you out. Have a word with y…"

Bo was silenced when the close proximity of his and Vincent's bodies caused something to poke at his stomach. His gaze drifted downward and when it did, he noticed something very strange. Ashamed of his accidental display, Vincent removed his hand from his clothing.

"What the fuck, you got a fuckin' hard-on?" Bo mumbled. He almost sounded as though he were talking to himself. He barked out a laugh, though it wasn't a pleasant laugh.

"What the fuck! What'cha been doin' down here, boy?" He asked, looking about the room with momentarily renewed vigor.

Vincent hid himself behind his hands, even though he was still wearing his mask. He just wanted to be invisible when his brother had been drinking. Why couldn't Bo just go sleep it off somewhere and leave him be?

"Gotta be shittin' me, you in love with somebody down 'ere?" Bo chuckled derisively. "You got a lil' wax bitch stowed away?" He yanked on his humiliated brother's overalls to get a better look at the tented bulge. Vincent only yelped again - an uncomfortable effort on his rarely used vocal chords - and backed away from the other man, putting up his hands in submission. Bo ignored his wordless pleas.

"Didn'know ya had it in ya t'get it up for nothin'. Where's it, huh? Where's the wax pussy ya been carvin'?" He glanced around for clues, but apart from a male figure from their most recent kill, no other sculpts were in sight.

Vincent warily stepped backwards, and it was not long until he collided with something. Bo watched as the male sculpture wobbled precariously, saved at the last moment from falling by its creator. He observed the way Vincent clung to the damn thing like some precious religious icon, and his gin-soaked brain slowly reached the obvious conclusion. Blinking slowly and allowing his eyes to focus, he stared at the way Vincent clung to the unfinished statue, the way he plainly stood in front of it as though to shield it from harm. No, not from harm, but from view.

"Move," he commanded, pulling at his twin's shoulder. Vincent remained still, and only a readied fist persuaded him to obey. His head drooped, letting long strands of his dark hair hide his mask, and he quietly stepped aside. 

Blinking the fog from his vision, Bo could make out the careful attention to the sculpture's muscles, to the detail between its legs that Bo had never seen before on one of Vincent's statues, and the way that one of this victim's arms had bent downward, fingers languidly posed, reaching for a half hardened phallus.

Vincent moved to stand behind the statue as though it might grant him protection, though he knew it would do him no good. Before the humiliating discovery, he was only a child to Bo, a child who needed to be punished. But now, a strange look glinted in his brother's eyes, a look Vincent had never seen before.

He had no time to ponder it. Bo was suddenly moving like a round from a shotgun. His arm swung in front of him and the beautiful older man's waxy cocoon shattered on impact. Shards of red and white scattered over the floor, some wax and others flesh that had not fully dried. To Vincent, the statue died as it hit the ground with a crunching thud, the limbs twisting and oozing with congealed blood. Its creator had no time to mourn the loss, for Vincent's brother was instantly upon him, gripping him by the arms and throwing him against the wall. Bo repeated the action before the frightened target of his rage could even put up a struggle.

Vincent's head was spinning as he tried to move, his limbs sluggish. Sometimes he curled up in a ball and allowed the punishments to happen, if only to get it over with, but today was different. He saw something in his twin's blazing eyes that he had never seen before. Amid the fury was disbelief, perhaps even shock. It frightened him, and he didn't dare guess what Bo had planned for him.

"What the fuck.  _ What the fuck _ , y'little cunt?!" Bo exclaimed, aiming his fist. Vincent shielded himself, but his arms were pulled away. The strike to his face made his vision blacken for a moment, and when it returned, his eyesight was filled with an ominous multi-limbed silhouette that he quickly realized was the palm and outstretched fingers of his brother's hand. Bo grasped what little remained of the mask and pulled it from Vincent's face.

The mask skittered as it hit the floor. Vincent frantically fought against his brother's hold, but his efforts in vain. The air against his uncovered face made him feel dirty, exposed. He instantly held his trembling hands against the malformed crater that would never be the right side of his visage, but his hands were once more pulled away, and he was yanked upward by his wrists until he could be forced to stand. Hardly able to speak out a protest,Vincent gave a pathetic attempt at a shout until he was rewarded with a hit to the deformed part of his face. It hurt worse than the strike to the intact half. Thus, he went willingly by his brother's lead to a mirror hanging against a wall, his hair entwined in Bo's fingers. He flinched at the sight of his reflection when his head was pressed against the glass.

"See that? You LIKE THAT?" Bo growled. "I don't care what mom would think. Brother or not, you're a fuckin' freak! And I ain't havin' a goddamn freak brother who's a fuckin' faggot too!"

Face burning with shame, Vincent let out a sob. He knew he couldn't hit back, knew what he would get for such audacity, so he struck at the wall instead. Bo hardly found it an impressive rebuke and he threw his brother aside, the alcohol in his brain muffling any sort of concern he felt at the sight of the other man's body landing hard against a wooden chair. Vincent only let out a strangled groan and tried to assume a fetal position on the floor, but a heavy boot turned him on his back, pinning him down by the neck like a caught rabbit ready to be beheaded.

"I promised mom I'd take care uh'you and I did, didn't I?" Bo snarled, spit flying and face turning red. "... and this is how you thank everything I've done, all the years I wasted in this shithole?? I didn't protect my brother and feed 'im and keep 'im alive for all these years just t'have him grow up to be a fuckin' QUEER! I didn't ask for no faggot-ass fairyland brother!!"

Gargling out a choked moan, with a split lip spraying blood, Vincent clawed at the leg holding him down, desperate for air. By some miracle, he managed to snag skin under his fingernails. He rolled out from under the hold just as Bo jumped back, stumbling in his gin-ridden stupor and limping. However, just as Bo was slowed by liquor, Vincent was slowed by agony. His back stung like hell from the fall against the chair and his face would doubtlessly be swollen and purple for days. Ahead of him lay one of his carving tools, and if he could just reach it, he might have a chance of warding off his brother and making a break for the stairs. 

He didn't get very far. Hobbling after him, Bo caught up easily and kicked him in the ribs. Vincent curled in on himself, his breath shallow. Were he able to speak loud and clear, he might have begged for mercy, even though he knew his words would do little to save him.

Bo would have none of this defiance. Picking up the gin bottle again, he turned Vincent onto his stomach, pinning him with his foot and listening to the pathetic sniveling. He guzzled long and hard, letting the drink dribble down his chin and neck, down until it reached his blue jeans. There, where the groin met the inseam, his clothes began to tighten. With clumsy hands, Bo put down the bottle and acted on instinct. The jeans were unbuttoned and out sprang the core of his lust.

"You wanna be a faggot so bad?" he slurred, reaching into his belt and pulling out a large bowie knife. "Y'gotta be 'nitiated like one."

Before he could defy his brother, Vincent felt the tense snap of both shoulder straps on his overalls being severed. For some strange reason, he was inspired to scream, but he was slapped in the back of the head for his troubles. And so he whimpered, tears and snot dripping, drool and dust turning his face grimy. His fingers tensed against the floor until the knuckles were white, nails unable to catch on the smooth cement. In no time, his overalls and underwear were cut down the middle and shredded from his body. It was a wonder he hadn't been cut in the process. 

"Still got a boner, hunnhh?" Bo asked, chuckling. He swiftly reached between his twin's thighs and grabbed Vincent's sex, delighting in the squeal he got.

"Yeah, bet y'like this, ya cocksucker."

Vincent only sobbed, his misshapen face pressed hard into the dirty floor.

"I fuckin' knew it. Now spread'em," his brother's voice demanded above him, forceful fingers pulling at the halves of Vincent's backside apart as though breaking open a loaf of bread. "Spread out there, lil' Missy, yer gonna learn a lesson."

What must have been merely five minutes felt like five hours to Vincent. He had nothing to hold onto, to keep him in place and focus his concentration; and so he could only lay there and have his body shoved about on the floor, with nothing to pay attention to but the agony which ripped through him and the words of sick, cruel encouragement from Bo. 

"Oh yeah, yer even wet for me, bitch." Indeed, going in relatively dry led to what Vincent could only assume was his own blood easing the thrusts. He felt as though he were being torn up the middle, starting from his bottom. All the while, he could hear Bo telling him what a good bitch he was. He tried to squirm out of his brother's hold only once, and the crook of an arm squeezed around his throat to ensure no further resistance.

"G'wan, take it! Take it, you fuck..."

What had he done wrong? All he did was love his beautiful new sculpture, and now he was receiving what he knew must have been the worst punishment he could have experienced in his life. All because of a hard dick. He couldn't help it. All these years, he had tried to be good, tried to please what little family he had left, but he knew now it was never enough. The thought of his earlier erection sickened him now. 

The torture came to a merciful end when Bo snapped his hips three final times with a strained groan. Vincent listened to the other man's heavy breaths and felt the intrusion slip painfully out of him with a vile squelching sound. The distinct sensation of air cooling his inner thighs told him of the sticky body fluids leaking out of him. He could not see the mess that his anus had become, but he did not need to. The color of Bo's hands were already horrible enough to look at.

A yank on Vincent’s hair directed his head to look at Bo, who was kneeling next to him. Spittle dangled from the smug grin on his face. Bo mumbled out a few more sweetened words of congratulation, but the trauma of what had just happened left Vincent unable to focus. Bo patted his brother's head as though praising an obedient dog, and he wiped the mess on his hands against the deformed hollow that was Vincent’s face. Slowly dressing himself again, the drunken man stood up, muttering, “Happy Birthday” repeatedly as he picked up the gin bottle and wandered back up the stairs.

A minute passed before Vincent finally moved from his prone position on the floor. HIs limbs shaking and his pain constant with every movement, he resumed the position he always took after each punishment. Curled up as though he was again a sleeping infant from years past, he wept, face in his hands, wondering why he deserved so much anguish.

Because he was a freak? Possibly. Like his brother had said, his brother who was always right and always knew everything. Because he was a faggot and a freak.

Nothing else.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the day after...

2.

Bo awoke the following morning in a heap on the couch, his head pounding and his stomach threatening to force its way out of his mouth. For a moment he imagined it doing just that, flopping around on the floor like a big pink bullfrog. The mental image nearly made him puke. Wandering to the refrigerator, he removed two eggs and cracked them into a glass of milk leftover from a day ago. Awkwardly gulping down the concoction, taking in the vomit gold of the tablecloth, the man tried his hardest to remember what happened last night. The only clue he could find was a near empty gin bottle, two swallows worth left over at the bottom. For the life of him, he could not remember anything. He hadn’t been blackout drunk in a long time, not since the age of fifteen, when a fellow foster kid offered him a stolen bottle of Gordon’s. His brother was not present to try it for himself, as he was in a different home on the other side of town by then…

Where was that lummox anyway?

Assuming Vincent was likely working all night on another one of his projects, Bo began a slowly shuffling journey back to the living room, where he hoped to sleep away the rest of his damn hangover. Along the way, his scuffles were interrupted. Cursing, Bo looked down to see what he had tripped over. His foot slid over the faded red paper beneath it.

Oh, fuck, of course. Yesterday - their birthdays. Damn that boy, Vincent had given his brother a present. Or made it, rather. The best present to give, Mom had said once. His brow knitted in a frown, Bo leant down, though his headache intensified in response, and he picked up the mess of paper and wax pieces.

Christ, Vincent had made him a wax sculpture. This one must have been beautiful, based on the detail in the cracked remains. The largest chunk of the figurine resembled a fish. Might have been another one of his Fiji mermaids. Thinking about how much work and time must have been put into it made Bo feel guilty. He hated to be reminded of the past and of their childhood, but he knew that Vincent was only trying to show how much he loved him.

These stupid birthdays… what a waste of…

_ Oh, fuck _ .

Though his head pounded like a hammer on his skull, Bo hastened towards the cellar door. The events of last night were coming back to him with the speed and severity of a bolt of lightning. He could remember everything, whether he liked it or not.  _ Everything _ . Vincent’s new statue, his goddamn hard-on, Bo ripping off his mask, hitting him and kicking him and... 

The memory was so clear, so strong now in the hung-over man's mind that he felt as though he were there again, performing a vile encore. The image overwhelmed him to the point of vertigo as he carefully rushed down the steps. Had he not gripped the rail during the descent, he might have fallen the rest of the way. Vincent would've had no one to see to him then.

_ Fuck _ , Bo thought. Had he really done that to his own brother? Why did he do it? Surely, he could imagine losing his temper over Vincent getting cozy with another man, wax or otherwise. Bo wondered if he should have been at all surprised with the revelation. God had already done enough to fuck with the both of them, why not do worse to continue the amusement? And yet Bo knew last night had gone too far. He was so drunk he hardly knew what he had been doing.

How the hell was he going to explain that to Vincent?

Finally, he reached the end of the stairs in what seemed like the longest journey down to the cellar, and he swung the workroom door open. He hesitated in the doorway as he saw the pitiful, shaking heap.

“Christ, Vincent.”

He found his brother just as he had left him. Laying in a shivering fetal position on the floor, the broken young man hovered between awareness and sleep. A snuffle arose from him, full of mucus and probably blood.

Instantly, Bo was kneeling over him as though shielding him from rain. He wanted to scoop him up in his arms, lift him from the cold, dirty floor, and tell him it was alright. But it was not alright. Vincent was not alright. How could Bo apologize for what he had done to him? Sorry, it was just the drink? He’ll never do it again? Forgive and forget, like it never happened?

Freak or not - queer or not - this was his brother.

Carefully, he eased an arm under the quaking, broken body, sighing when he felt a harsh shudder ripple through Vincent. His twin was naked except for a long sleeved undershirt, and the rest of him was covered with blood and spunk. At least one of the stains on the material was still damp, proof of the severity of Vincent’s fall against the chair.

God damn it all.

Vincent awoke and gave a shuddering whisper of a moan, uncertain of his surroundings. He realized very quickly, however, that he was being lifted, but his features were too battered to let him open his eye. When he reached a logical conclusion as to the identity of the person carrying him, he panicked. Bo was not at all surprised, but he tightened his grip despite the pain it would cause.

“Stay still, I gotcha,” he said, his voice hard. Soothing could wait a moment longer. The last thing either of them needed was for Bo to lose his grip and drop Vincent. “Let's take a look at you.”

Still squirming, Vincent could not calm under his twin brother’s touch, even as he was placed in a small cot. The bedding had been set up there years ago, due to all the time the young artist spent in the cellar, and it certainly came in handy now. Free of his brother's arms, Vincent immediately returned to curling into a tight protective ball once his aching body was securely on the ratty mattress. Bo understood but would have none of it.

“No, no, Vincent,” he quietly reprimanded as he made an effort to unwind the tense form of his twin as gently as possible. “I’ve got to take care of you now. I know you hurt, and I’m gonna make things right, I promise.”

The irony of his vow was not lost on either man. If Vincent were asked to describe his twin, gentle would be one of the furthest words from his mind. Presently he didn't care what Bo said. He hurt. And nothing his brother could possibly do could take that hurt away. He just wanted to be left alone. He wanted to die.

Vincent's face was not visible under the oily strings of his black hair, but Bo had a feeling the man was crying from the way his shoulders shook and his breath hitched in his throat. Rasping screams resonated inside Bo’s head from hours before and he shut his eyes and tried to ignore the memory. He would be surprised if Vincent hadn't screamed himself fully mute.

“Don't cry, boy," he murmured, patting the hair with a careful hand. "I’ve got to make it better, right? I'm gonna try to make it better."

Slowly, the body under Bo’s touch went slack, but Vincent continued to quietly weep. Perhaps his brain and body were grown, but his heart was still like a child's, and that notion made Bo feel even worse. Carefully he peeled the undershirt off of his twin’s bloodied form and cringed at how it stuck to the skin. So many times in the past, he had done the same to those who would become part of Vincent’s wax menagerie, people he cared nothing for or downright hated. It was easy to strip them down like meat for the butcher's block. But this was his brother. Bo promised his mother a long time ago that he would take care of Vincent, and now he had done this.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispered. “We need to get you cleaned up, don’t we?”

Vincent did not respond, not that he was expected to. Sighing, Bo stood and searched for a bucket. He came back with two, both filled with water and each draped with a rag. The rags looked clean enough to him, and he hoped he was right. In his mouth was a bottle of rubbing alcohol, his teeth closed on the lid.

"Alrhh…" he spoke around the bottle as he put down his supplies. "Here 'e go."

Cleaning the bloodstained skin was easy enough if Bo pretended he was washing off a new corpse. The flesh beneath his palm quivered, but Vincent was silent for most of their progress. The only time he made noise was when the alcohol met broken skin, and even then his cries were little more than a breathy squeak, like the barely audible whine of a dog. 

As he cleaned his broken and humiliated brother, Bo inspected the worst of the wounds. Prodding at the ugly bruises on Vincent’s sides, he was slightly relieved that no ribs seemed to be broken. He had remembered kicking the area brutally hard. The back was a worse mess, where it had collided with the chair, for when Bo scrubbed at it, the crooked gash slowly welled up with the dark red fluid again. It would have to be stitched and regularly cleaned. Bo knew Vincent would not tend to it himself, not in this despairing state. Dunking and wringing out the washcloth, Bo ignored the amount of liquid red which spilled from it and carried on. 

More unnerving than the blood was the spunk. Coming across his own dried up ejaculate made Bo shudder. He remembered how he wiped the sticky mess from his hand against Vincent's deformity and realized the poor bastard’s face was going to look just as bad as his torso, if not worse. 

Bo gently pulled the curtain of dark hair aside, and though Vincent began to turn away, he reconsidered and showed himself properly. Bo had not entertained the thought that even the missing half of his brother's face could bruise before, but as he could plainly see, it was swollen and dark with burst blood vessels. The other half, the half that resembled Bo's own features, was barely a normal face either. At present the eye was forced shut from the swelling, and were Vincent able to speak on a regular basis, his split lip and bludgeoned jaw would have made him silent once more.

With most of Vincent's body cleaned, Bo dropped the rag and looked with regret at the chaos that lay between Vincent’s legs. Dried blood and semen caked itself over the span of the rump and had dripped in tiny two-toned rivers down the thighs. Sighing, Bo wet the cloth in the second bucket and edged onto the cot, preparing to clean the horrid mess.

Vincent had remained motionless until he felt fingers against his bottom. The intrusion of the torn channel relit flames of agony and the recollection of what his brother had done to that place yesterday caused Vincent to scream. Though Bo tried to carefully hold him down, he refused to cooperate. He refused to let that punishment happen again and he never ever wanted his brother to touch him there again.

“Vincent!” Bo snapped. “If you don't sit still right now, you’re gonna regret being born.”

The sobbing young man seemed oblivious of his brother's words, only hearing the anger. 

“Vincent!" Bo hissed through clenched teeth, trying his best to keep a firm grip on his temper, which was threatening to break free again. "I gotta clean you up. All of you. And that includes yer ass here. I know it's gonna hurt, but if I don't, then it's gonna hurt a hell of a lot more when it gets infected. You've gotta trust me on this. I'm gonna make it better…" Bo glanced away for just a moment. "Somehow I'm gonna make this all better."

After a few seconds of silence, Vincent tightly grasped at fistfuls of the sheets beneath him, breathing slowly and readying himself for what was to come. He had no choice but to trust his brother. Most of the time Bo was all he had.

"Alright?" he heard his twin speak softly. "Alright, here we go."

Bo could feel amongst the sticky dried fluids that this was going to be torture for Vincent. The prostrate man's ripped, swollen hole tightened at the very touch of fingertips on the cheeks of his rump. And so when he finally applied the wet rag to the damaged hole, the rasping, ragged voice of his twin elevated to a howl which echoed inside the basement. Taking a deep breath, Bo continued, trying a second time to imagine those wails coming from one of the countless bastards they had snatched in the past.

The blood and semen were coming off now, but the snug passage still looked as though someone had taken a knife to it. Poor Vincent whimpered at the treatment of his most horrible wound and he pressed the empty half of his visage into a pillow, which was now wet with his tears and spittle.

"It's okay," Bo automatically repeated, though he felt like total shit for saying it. He was the cause of all this and now he was tending to Vincent like their mother would have. He wrung out the bloody water from his washcloth into the bucket, and did one more careful wipe over the length of Vincent's back, letting the cool water run over the bruised skin.

“Alright, alright, we're done now. We're all done.” Bo tenderly patted the strings of long greasy hair on his twin's head as though comforting a dog. “You did a real good job.”

Vincent was eerily silent, and his brother had to push aside the long strands of raven hair and see the continually falling tears to know that he was still crying. The battered twin avoided looking at Bo and had the wax mask not been torn away from that despaired, misshapen face, his expression would have gone unnoticed. As such, Bo Sinclair shuddered at the sight and pulled his hand away as though he'd been burnt. Without another word, he picked up the buckets and walked with slow steps toward the steps like one sent to the gallows.

*

In the week following the 'incident,' as Bo had come to call it, he barely spoke to his brother. Vincent remained in his blood splattered cot for two days before the sounds of his machinery finally arose through the staircase. Otherwise, he endeavored to pass by invisible in his twin's presence, and was never even noticed getting his food or using the toilet. Bo partly welcomed the absence, as the two brothers were not given many chances at confrontation. Both of them found it too painful to look at each other. But Bo still wondered how long he could steer clear of Vincent, and if avoidance was a wise action to take. What if the boy needed help for something? In that clever, childish mind, Bo feared to think that perhaps something had been touched, or possibly altered. Altered for good? Was Vincent ever even going to trust him again?

Save for his recovery, what was to stop him from leaving Ambrose behind now?

Lost in his thoughts, Bo sat smoking on the front steps of the Sinclair house one afternoon when he was startled by a loud crash. Judging from the reverberating noise, he guessed the commotion to be from the basement. He wasted no time wondering the source of the noise, because he was inside the house and down the stairs without a moment's hesitation.

“Vincent!” he called out, almost losing his footing along the way. “Vincent!”

The first thing Bo saw when he entered the room was a pile of junk. Rather, a pile of junk which had once been one of Vincent's tool shelves. Metal both stainless and rusted lay scattered upon the cold floor and the iron framework itself had contorted to the impact upon the ground. Repairing the shelf would most likely be impossible.

“Vincent?”

Only the slightest of movement caught in the corner of Bo's eye alerted him to where his brother was. Coiled up in a ball like a frightened puppy, Vincent hid himself as best as he possibly could under a small space where he would often crawl into in order to use the trap doors leading upstairs. In the shadows, Bo could see his twin's hands were shaking in front of his face.

Bo stepped toward his brother, but the quaking hands only went up in self defense, and Vincent turned away, sniffling. One had to be an idiot not to determine that the deformed man had been crying again. Taking another step, Bo could see the figure in the darkness tensing like a sidewinder ready to strike.

Vincent was expecting another punishment. He looked terrified at the thought.

“I’m not mad. Come on,” Bo said, his voice soft and his hand outstretched to help him out of the crawlspace. “Git a move on. It was an accident. I ain't mad.”

_ I can't afford to be mad this time _ , he thought.

Finally, Vincent took the offered hand and crawled out of his hiding place. He had not made a replacement for his mask and Bo could see the valley of missing flesh and bone behind strands of oily hair. The other half of the face was twisted in a miserable grimace. The shiner of a left eye must have left him barely able to see.

“You okay?” Bo asked the slouched figure. “Get hurt anywhere?”

Vincent's head never rose, and he merely shook it no as a reply.

“Alright,” Bo looked around at the unplanned mess and scratched the back of his head where his brother had once been physically connected to him. “Let's clean up, shall we? Get things looking good again. Can't have you doing your masterpieces in a messy workroom, huh?”

But just as Bo finished his question, he looked around the area and he blinked, thinking perhaps he was imagining the empty space. But no, it was just as he feared. No sculptures. The handsome man Vincent had taken so much devotion and care to creating now lay in a heap. The pieces Bo had not destroyed himself had been smashed by his twin. Otherwise, the place held no signs of someone hard at work, no clues that Vincent was even doing anything down in the cellar but sitting in misery and avoiding the outside world.

Bo's hand still gripped that of his twin, and he lightly pulled Vincent toward him, hoping he could avoid frightening the scarred young man at this close a space between one another.

“Why ain't you working?” he asked, trying to force the deformed face upward so that he could look into the remaining eye for any sort of clue. But he did not need clues, and he knew it. Sighing, he stared quietly at the left eye, red and hazy from shed tears.

“I sure did fuck things up, didn't I?”

Vincent looked down again and finally pulled himself away to lie down on his cot. Shaking his head, Bo gave up for the day and returned upstairs, disregarding the fallen shelf.


End file.
